


An Account of Humanization

by pastel_poisons



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Body Horror, Gun Violence, Jealousy, Loneliness, M/M, Nuclear Aftermath, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Promiscuity, Rating May Change, Robot/Human Relationships, Violence, robot gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel_poisons/pseuds/pastel_poisons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything I knew, blown apart within a week of my activation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Lost Robot

**Author's Note:**

> Somebody had to do it.
> 
> Tags and rating will change, as chapters are uploaded.

Everything I knew, blown apart within a week of my activation. 

Everyone left in such a hurry. With the front door wide open, the sounds of crying, screaming, shoes slamming against concrete, drowning out the television. 

The news anchor fizzled to static. Replacing him, the color bar test pattern. Even that didn’t last. The power flickered, and went out. 

Then, light. Light so bright, and an explosion so loud, even my General Atomics engineering couldn't process them. A reading of ten million degrees assaulted my heat sensors, frying them completely. 

The bomb was the last thing I truly felt. 

Silence filled the room. As if time itself stood still. Not a single sound, human or animal.

I searched the scorched neighborhood, passing rubble and crisp blades of grass. Autumn leaves – once orange and red – were blackened, and pushed along by radioactive wind. Even for Fall, the vegetation was unseasonably dead. 

Only one living being found: A woman. I could not recognize her, though she apparently lived nearby. Blisters covered nearly every inch of her face. In her arms, a dead baby. 

“Who’s there?” Milky white eyes darted around. 

“I’m Codsworth, Mr. Handy robotic butler.”

She attempted to smile. What was flesh pulled farther away from teeth. “Hello, Codsworth. I’m Jenna. And this is little David.” She rocked the little body. “Will you help me up?” 

I hesitated. “Ma’am, you’re badly burned.” 

“I’ve had sunburns before. Come on!” The hand flexed feebly. 

Gently, I reached towards her.

Flesh slipped off like a glove. 

She screamed. A shrill, constant sound echoing through the empty neighborhood. 

She wilted to the ground, cries getting weaker. A gurgling sound came from her throat. A death rattle. 

The time I’d spent, turning over charred corpses. Analyzing silhouettes burned into surfaces. Looking for Mum, Nate, and Shaun, and hoping I did not find them. 

Weeks passed, and I'd reached my conclusion. They had made it safely to the vault. Somewhere underground, they were enjoying the finest artificial sunlight and comforts technology had to offer. 

I kept the house clean. Partly to keep my mind off the unpleasantness of the situation – to drown my sorrows in mop water. Waiting until the fallout died down enough for the family – or more realistically, their descendants – to come visit old Codsworth.

No one ever came.

The first noise I'd heard in years – besides the sound of dusting and polishing – was what are now known as Raiders. They’d caught a glimpse of my then-shiny exterior.

"Look, guys," I remember her saying. "It's one of those Mr. Handys." 

“I wonder if it lives up to its name," another said. A distasteful joke. 

"My grandpa mentioned having one of those. You know, before the war. I can't believe we found one still kickin'." 

At first, I was ecstatic to see human life had persisted elsewhere. All must not be lost if humanity was not yet extinct, I thought. 

They ultimately decided I'd make a fantastic shooting target. 

That was the first time my tools, made to serve mankind, was used against it. 

Other things made their way to Sanctuary Hills. Mostly bugs, mutated to enormous proportions.

My work went from weeding the garden and waxing what was left of the car, to pest control. “Pests” ranged from six-legged vermin, to two-legged invaders. 

Then finally, after 200 years, I see a familiar face. I ran a full diagnostics check to ensure I wasn't malfunctioning. I was not. 

There Nate was, without even a single hair grayed since I'd last seen him. 

The happy reunion was cut short. Mum was murdered and Shaun kidnapped, he told me. Bitterly, he alluded to Vault-Tec being nothing but liars conducting human experiments. 

"Sir," I told him, "These things you're saying. These terrible things. I... I believe you need a distraction. Yes! A distraction to calm the mood."

Nate flashed a charming smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Codsworth, are there any people nearby?”


	2. Runaround

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collecting nuclear waste is never without risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. I'm... I'm really writing a M!Sole/Codsworth fic, aren't I? 
> 
> Also, collecting nuclear waste is a terrible first date.

Since Nate's return, things have been uncomfortable, to say the least. Nate frequently seeks out company. New people – some fitting the description better than others – willing to travel with him, to kill for him. For the special – shall we say – large handful, he wastes no time participating in activities once reserved for Mrs. Waters

This post-war environment has changed him, and not for the better, I must say.

There's no longer an 'if.’ If he’s alive. If he’ll return. I’m left with a simple fact: Mr. Waters does not desire my company. 

From behind, Nate’s voice cuts through the gloom. Finally, he says it. “Codsworth?”

“Shall I accompany you, Sir?” 

 

 

As we walk, he wastes no time explaining the situation. “Here's the deal. I have this design for a generator. It could provide Sanctuary with all the energy it needs. Problem is, it needs a bunch of nuclear material.” Eyes on his Pipboy, he continues, “Rumor has it that there's tons of the stuff in a nearby junkyard.” 

“Sir.” I try to conceal the wariness in my voice. “I'm afraid I don't completely trust this information.” 

He laughed. “I know it sounds out there, but trust me. You remember Danse?” 

“Yes.” And I wish I didn't. 

“Well, I've been doing some running around for the Brotherhood Of Steel. There's this guy, Proctor Quinlan. He has me collecting technical documents.”

“I see.” 

“I found hundreds of official Mass Fusion papers. From what I've read, towards the end, the price for nuclear material was sky high. Too pricy, even for them. They took to getting it from illegal sources. Sketchy stuff. Guess the junkyard was their hiding place.” 

“You're sure I'm the man for the job?” 

“Completely! You're immune to radiation.” 

“I see.” There's a twinge of sadness – disappointment, really. I should have known better than to get my hopes up. Of course I'm needed to haul radioactive material. 

“I would have asked Nick, but he's not too happy with me right now,” Nate laughed, rubbing his neck. Red dusts his cheeks.  
I feel like my inner workings are grinding to a painful stop. 

An awkward silence. 

He glances up. “Shit,” Nate hisses, gesturing towards a crudely painted skull. “Gunners caught wind of this place.” 

He aims his weapon, a gift from the Brotherhood Paladin. He whispers, “Alright, Cods, head over there.” 

I move towards the center of the junk yard, gaining the Gunners’ attention. Almost immediately, they open fire. 

Bullets, lead and laser, fly through the air, cutting through metal, leather, and bodies. 

I corner one Gunner. A woman. Her hair, stringy. Teeth, not present. Her face has a caved-in appearance. She spits vulgarities at me, hitting me with a pool cue. The wood splinters, then breaks. 

“Shit! Shit, shit!” She expresses herself in colorful metaphors. 

I set fire to her. Her screams wilt as flesh blisters.

After dealing with the foul-mouthed woman, I turned my attention to another target. 

His round face suggested youth, but the premature wrinkles etched into his skin said ‘man.’ I slashed at his neck, but missed, barely nicking him.

“Fuck! You rusty bucket of shit!” He takes a shot at me. 

“I don't feel pain, you know.” 

This clearly irritates him. “Come here,” demands a gruff voice. It appears gunfire was too impersonal for him.

Hands dart out, and grab my arm. There's a snap. 

This really isn't a shock to me. I'm a Mr. Handy, not a Mr. Gutsy. I was not manufactured for combat. 

There's a click. I look up to find myself on the unpleasant end of a gun barrel. 

The close proximity of the blast shatters what little protection my surface offers. He slams the butt of his gun into my wiring, chipping hardware. 

Every bang is accompanied by the sound of Nate yelling. As my vision turns dark, Nate's voice, too, fades.


End file.
